You know those stories about catholic school you hear; physically abusive, sexually repressed nuns, seedy priests, horny girls in plaid skirts? Well, guess what fellas, they're all true.

I know this because for 11 years I went to catholic school. From first grade until about junior year in high school, when I was finally politely asked to leave, I did time at 2 catholic schools which I will respectively refer to as "St. A's" & "F.B. Academy" for half-assed anonymity's sake. However, if you're looking for a sexy story, you can just scroll on by, muthafucka', 'cuz that's a tale for another day. I'm here to tell you about my faith, and how God and all his little children killed it, and how I brought it back from the dead.

First off, I am not, nor have I ever been, Catholic. I'd love to tell you some fabulous story about my excommunication, but it just ain't there. When I was born, my parents (both non-practicing, dad's a protestant, mom's a christian scientist) rather than have me baptized, decided to leave my spiritual destiny to me. To this day, when asked, I tell people I'm an Independent.

Now, being the only heathen in catholic school was the first thing to set me apart. When you go to catholic school, especially in an inner-city Irish catholic neighborhood, you're pretty much obligated to attend the odd church service at some point during the school week, Original Sin or not. Even as a little grade schooler though, I had an appreciation for architecture, ceremony and a good story, so at the very least I was always entertained. The huge parish of St. A's that was my grade school was home to an amazing gothic church, complete with ornate leaded stained glass windows, soaring buttresses, bony spires, and a massive pipe organ that rumbled in your chest when it was played. I liked to go there and dream through the services, watching the sunlight shatter into royal blue and stigmata-blood red through the glass, smelling that ancient incense smell. I liked to go and hear stories about Jesus, because, well, as a girl I had a crush on Jesus. He was just my type; prone to deep proclamations, kind, skinny and suffering. I'd hear that story about him spitting in the dirt and making a mud-pack for the blind guy's eyes, and how the blind guy could see after the mud dried up and fell off and I'd think; "Gross. I wish I had magic spit." I loved Jesus, even though all his fresh-faced little angels at Saint A's assured me that, due to my being filthy with Original Sin, Jesus didn't even know I existed. But that was okay, I was a sucker for unrequited love. Still am, I think.

Every Easter, like clockwork, we'd hear about the Passion and Resurrection. Habited nuns, in full penguin attire, told lurid stories with all the gusto of pornographers about exactly where they hammered the nails into my heart-throb's hands and feet. Turns out it wasn't actually in the hands or the feet. Nope, you have to drive those nails in between the tendons of the wrists and the ankles, because the fragile bones of the extremities, and their soft, jellied flesh won't support a man's full weight, no matter how fragile and lithe he looked to this girl's eyes. These are the kinds of things you learn in catholic school. I'd hear over and over again about the whippings, the spitting, the scourging of the flesh and wonder how people could be so cruel to such a sweet and attractive guy. Jesus was such an underdog, and I was such a sucker for an underdog. Still am, I guess. I'll bet that I probably thought more about Jesus than any of his lambs.

Being a heathen really became a bitch when snack time rolled around at mass. I had to kneel behind, looking prayerful, perhaps contemplating my un-erasable sin, while all the kids lined up to recieve the host. I'd watch the priests pop the wafers into their mouths and I'd stare at the blessed avidly while they made the sign of the cross, folded their hands, and made their ways, chewing, back to their seats. I tried to see if they looked different, if they looked empowered by the "sustaining force" that the nuns told us that sliver of bread held. I think I honestly was dissappointed that none of them rolled their eyes in gastronomic delight and went "Mmmm!" I wondered what it tasted like, like if you were really paying attention, did it actually taste like the body of Christ, like He assured us it was. I understood the concept of sybolism, but I also knew the power of my imagination, so I often wondered what it would taste like to me. I still have no idea.

However, I can tell you how it tastes when your classmates are blessed with the wisdom that those who don't "recieve" are damned. I remember the day so exactly, when the nuns informed us of "Original Sin". I remember the slant of the sunlight in the dusty classroom, I remember the way they all turned in their seats to face me, all at once, like something terrifyingly synchronized. An automated gallery of smug little heads turning and smirking at me. I remember blushing with shame even though I felt distinctly jipped. I remember the first mass after that newfound knowledge, when one of the boys walked past my row after communion and opened his mouth to show me the half-chewed remains. I remember one of the nuns catching him and beating him with a wooden pointer when we got back to class. I remember her shrieking about "desecration". I remember one of the girls sliding into the pew next to me and whispering "did you go up?". She knew I didn't. I said "no." She smiled at me and said "Then you're going to Hell, you know. You're gonna' burn forever. In fire. God hates Original Sin." What the fuck was that about? But I was a good person! I was in love with Jesus!

This was my first rejection. Jesus dumped me.

I remember when I was about 9 or 10, I found some discarded prayerbooks outside the rectory, so I took them home. On Sunday, when my 2 girl friends came to vist their grandmother upstairs from me, I swept our back porch clean, draped a scrap of burgundy red velour over the porch rail, poured grape juice into one of my folk's stolen wine glasses, mashed wads of Wonderbread into flat circles, and made them play church. I was such a weird little kid. But they indulged me, kneeling as I placed the wonder-wafers on their outstretched tongues and gave them a sip of the communal wine. We all said the "Our Father", I told them to go in peace in the name of Jesus, and then we dragged the radio onto the porch and danced around to Donna Summer re-enacting last night's episode of "Solid Gold". I thought Jesus was hot, they thought Danny Terrio was hot. There's no accounting for taste, I guess.

Anyway, eventually the sting of rejection must have really got to me, because I did what anyone who's rejected does; I played it off. I walked around with my big 'ol "I don't need God" attitude, which carried me right through high school. I wore my atheism like some heavy metal, elitist badge of honor. I called Christians "sheep" just like the Bible did, and reminded them about how a sheep will walk off a cliff if that's where you lead it. I listened to bands like King Diamond, W.A.S.P. and Mercyful Fate, because I knew the lyrics would piss off my pious classmates. I was pro-choice and all up in everyone's face about "my snatch, my rights", which is a real pisser when you consider that being "pro-life" is pretty big in a catholic girl's high school. I'd openly groan in Theology 101 when some PMS'd-out chick would tearfully ask what God's stance was on abortion, and then be outraged when a teacher (a fucking teacher certified by the board of education!) would declare a woman's choice a sin. My big jokes were about how I didn't have anything to feel guilty about for masturbating, and "Jesus is coming, hide the weed!". Basically anything that was offensively blasphemous was a hoot to me. Yep, I was quite a charmer.

I must admit though, when one year it seemed everyone around me was dying, everyone I really loved, all the good people I knew, and I suddenly found myself watching kids my own age being buried in the ground, I'm incredibly grateful for all of that rage. Because if I wasn't so caught up in using all of those terrible incidents as proof that God didn't exist, or at least, didn't give a flying fuck about us, I'd have had nothing to pin my anger on. If I hadn't been so busy giving the finger to that absent God, then I'd have probably really gone down in flames. Granted, as it was, I was pretty preoccupied with fucking up my life in the ways most of us did when we were 15 on up; dabbling in drink, dabbling in drugs, dabbling in bad boys, flushing what was once considered great academic potential down the toilet with something like self-rightgeous glee. I really enjoyed being a fuck-up, and I did it with style. A style apparently not befitting a student at F.B. Academy. I guess they got tired of seeing me in detention, of not seeing me in class and trying to figure out which of the downtown coffee houses or record stores I might have been in that day. I was asked to leave, and did with a "fine, fuck you." and the worst set of grades you ever did see. (I even failed gym, for chrissake.)

Fortunately I found a great school to finish out my high school education in, one that was, ironically, downtown; the place that once lured me away from school. Religion was no longer part of the formal curriculum. (but thankfully, guys were!) I spent my last year in a school that I wished I had spent all four in. I met buddhists, muslims, hindus, agnostics, protestants, baptists, wiccans and yes, catholics. Even a few believers in the doctrine of slack. I mean, give me a discordian who worships at the altar of Bob any old day. In any case, I stopped having such a wild hair across my ass about God and started getting busy finding "religion" in other things.

There's more God in your authors, in your film makers, in your musicians, in your painters & sculptors, in your friends, in your lovers, in your family, in your cities, your oceans, your skies, than you will ever find in any mass. I wonder; what is that "black matter" in space? What is the "unified field theory", and why do I feel like understanding it might change everything? what is that rare moment during sex when you look at someone and really "see" them, and you see them "seeing" you? What is human consciousness, really? What makes someone a "sentient being"? What's that feeling I get when I listen to Mahler's 6th Symphony? What are dreams, why do we have them and why are mine so goddamn fascinating to me? And on and on and on...that's my faith, my religion, whatever you want to call it.

I read a pretty good book once with and amazing quote in it. One of my favorite quotes ever. The Book is called "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" by Tom Robbins, The quote is from the lips of one of the characters, "The Chink", who is sort of this horny chinese guru who lives in a cave near the ranch where the story is set. At one point in the novel he says: "I believe in everything, nothing is sacred. I believe in nothing, everything is sacred." Well, that's about as close to any kind of dogma as I've ever adopted for myself, and frankly, it's about as close to any kind of organized religion as I'll ever get. Which is fine with me.

Anyway, I got to thinking about all of this after watching the Leonid [sic] meteor shower last night. I made it a point to take a boiling hot shower, bundle myself up, and stretch out on a patio cushion in my backyard, having a beer and smoking a cigarette while watching the sky fall. I was just out for an amazing light show, but it became a lot more than that. I noticed that all of those stray thoughts in my head about stupid bullshit like work and getting things done and worrying about money went away without me having to make the effort. I just rested, watching space flotsam burst and streak across the sky through the lace of bare trees, hearing the wind rustle the leaves on the ground and breathing in that cold, clean air and smiling. I lost track of time in a way that was almost hypnotic and it wasn't until my "smoking hand" went dead from the cold that I finally hauled ass in and found that I had been "gone" in every sense of the word for almost two hours. I was really grateful for that time, especially once my damn hand thawed out. But a funny thing happened as I glanced up for that final peek before I went in. I still had a big smile on my face, and with no forethought whatsoever, I said out loud; "thanks." To who or what, I'll never know. The sky, I guess, which is pretty fuckin' daffy when you think about it. But I wasn't thinking about it. It just slipped out. A bit of an "amen", I suppose.

An "amen" from the heathen. An "amen" from the Independent.

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I try hard to be good, I really fucking do, but it just isn't that simple. Everyone has their limit, and I guess there's a shorter distance between me and mine than most. I give everyone a pretty fair shake though; I come into any kind of interpersonal interaction with a friendly smile and an earnest desire to be helpful and considerate. When you first meet me under any circumstance I'm polite, compassionate, quick to laugh and kid in the hopes of making an unpleasant situation a little lighter, willing to go out of my way for you, willing to listen, willing to teach, full of courteous little surprises, you name it. I go above and beyond. But there's a catch.

Give me any lip, any attitude whatsoever, take advantage in any way or prove that you're just too stupid to be helped and that's when my inner psycho-bitch comes to the fore and my motto becomes:

"I'm okay, you're lunch."

For example, I recently left a great job where I was pretty much "master of my domain". It was great because I had a group of employees and co-workers that knew the drill, so I didn't have to babysit them, and they kept the unnecessary annoyances off my shoulders so the job could get done. Another great thing was that because where I worked was a non-corporate small business, I was trusted to put people (read: customers) in their place when they got out of line. And while I wouldn't exactly call my position "powerful", per se, I definitely had some control. I didn't abuse it, but I exercised it enough so that people knew better than to screw me around. I loved my job, spent four years there, but since moving two years ago, the commute had gotten increasingly untenable. (By the way, I just took a pay-cut for a job in *retch* retail a little closer to home, so you can expect lots more bitching from me. Goody, huh?)

It was a two hour travel by subway both ways. At first it was great because I really liked having all of that time to read. Reading also doubles as your best defense on the subway too, because you're not making any eye contact, and you can always pretend to be "too engrossed" to encourage any unwanted attention. It works pretty well, for the most part. But I digress; the reason I'm bringing up my hellacious commute is because there is only one thing that can make it completely unbearable: suicide.

I know, I know; how dare I, right? But let me set the scene for you: you've had a hard night at work. Everything that could go wrong, did. You've been busting your hump for say, maybe nine hours without time for a real break, just the odd cup of coffee poured down your gullet on the run. You're tired, you're dirty, you're stinky and you're hungry. You're looking forward to a shower, a meal, perhaps a beer and a movie or something, whatever your favorite diversion might be before you have to go to bed, get up and do it again. You still have a long two hour ride to go before you get there, but hey, that's okay; you're saving a ton on car insurance this way, and you've got a great book that you just can't wait to dive into. It's just more time to unwind and transition so that you're not bringing any aggravation home with you. You board the train, things are humming along, you glance up from your book to find that you're already 1/2 way there and it didn't even seem like an hour, after all, this is a really great book. You're feeling better already.

Next thing you know, the train brakes. Now, I'm not talking one of those easy shuffles into the next station, or a slow cruise to a stop to let another train pass; this is one of those hard brakes where you hear iron screaming and sparks fly everywhere. This is a problem. Everybody looks around, blinking curiously. The guy across from you makes a face and shrugs his shoulders as if to say; "I dunno." You smile and nod, in on the joke; these things happen, we'll be off in no time. Suddenly a voice crackles over the P.A. system, a voice thick with emotion, a voice trembling with shock but trying to sound calm:

"Attention passengers, we have a medical emergency at the next station. We will be standing by for a moment. Please bear with us. Thank you for your patience."

You notice that the front car of your train is in the station, but that's it. No one gets on it and no one gets off it until all six cars are actually at the platform. You're essentially stuck there. And you know, as all mass transit passengers do after enough experience, that "medical emergency" is code for a "jumper". This is the kind of thing that can happen way too often sometimes. Several seem to come in close proximity to each other after a long lull.

The sick realization dawns immediately now, you've been riding the train so long. You look over at the same guy who shrugged at you a second ago and you see that he knows it too; his face is ashen, his eyes mirror your concern, and you both shake your heads slowly. What a shame. What a tragedy. Nothing can be that bad, can it? That someone would end their life so brutally and, well, publicly?

"Poor bastard", you're thinking. Was it a lost love? The death of a family member? A terminal diagnosis? You're right in the heart of the city; maybe someone lost their job and just couldn't handle it. A successful investment banker, perhaps, or maybe just the janitor; some poor immigrant knocking himself out to send money back to his family in Cuba, Brazil, wherever else life can change for the better on an American minimum wage ('cuz it sure ain't here). But still, how much despair could possibly lead someone to willfully splatter themselves across a few hundred tons of fast moving metal? You shudder. You're so busy making up a dramatic, tragic story for this dead stranger that you've forgotten all about your amazing book, you've forgotten how much you wanted that frosty beer and god knows you're certainly not hungry anymore. You hope that whatever is on the other side of this life is better for this person. You wish them the peace they never found here.

Time passes and you've been sitting there for about an hour. They've announced the "medical emergency" about 20 times now, and keep assuring you that you will be on your way as soon as it's possible. The last cup of coffee you had to keep you sharp at work is beginning to weigh heavily on your bladder and you're so tired that dinner, beer and a movie is out of the question. A shower and bed is all you can look forward to at this hour and you want it desperately. Almost as desperately as you wish they would install a pisser in these goddamn things. You start to think the drunks might have it right and just taking a leak in the corner becomes a nearly viable option. But being a chick and all, you don't exactly have the luxury of turning your back and whipping it out, so you're just screwed for the moment. Damn, if the train had just gotten all the way into the station then maybe they could open the doors and let you off. You could hit the restroom on the concourse and maybe call a cab the rest of the way home. Sure it would be so expensive that it would negate about 1/2 your day's pay, but what the hell, right? It would be worth it at this point. The guy who shrugged at you and shared your compassion a moment ago is looking at you like you have the answers or something. You open up your book again and try not to think about it.

More time has passed now, but you're not exactly sure how much because the urine must have backed up into your brain or something. Every time you look at your watch, you fail to make sense of it because you have to piss so bad that you can't think straight. You're thinking; "the big hand's on the fuck, I gotta go!, the little hand's on the goddamn, my eyes are starting to water!". The idea of pissing yourself is not only not humilliating in the least anymore, but downright heroic under the circumstances. A small price to pay for all of the relief you might feel. But your better judgement must still be in there somewhere because you know you just can't, but damn it's a nice thought. You try to keep reading, but like the watch, the meaning eludes you and you find yourself reading the same paragraph over and over and not understanding it. You stare at the emergency call box that links you to the conductor and wonder if having to go this bad actually qualifies as an emergency. You wonder if you can get some special dispensation to get off the train, walk through the rest of the tunnel and get the hell out of there if you can convince them that you're not an idiot like everyone else. But thanks to so many frivilous lawsuits, nobody trusts anyone to make a move without somehow managing to step on the live rail, electrocute themselves and then sue the city. Assholes. You suddenly hate the entire human race for being incompetent, but not so incompetent that they can't figure out a way to rape the system for a few million. The guy across from you is now staring at you with open hostility like somehow you have something to do with this mess, and you wonder if bashing his teeth in might distract you from how bad you have to go. Fucker. You wish it was him under the train, at least then all this suffering might be worth it.

But the amazing thing is that you don't hate anyone half as much as the selfish, inconsiderate fuckwit, you know, the one you just considered a poor lost soul, that had the audacity to get in the way of  your train, diverting you from your beer, your shower your dinner, your bed, your movie, and most importantly your clean, pristine, Tidy-Bowled cistern of swirling cool, blue tinted water. Sweet relief. Ooooh, god. You had no idea that the human bladder could take this much pressure without exploding. Don't think about it, don't think about it! Motherfucker! I don't care what kind of problems you have, don't you have the self-respect to just blow your goddamn head off somewhere where it's not my problem too? Rent a hotel room or something and chase a bottle of 'barbs with some whiskey like a non-dickhead. I mean, what the fuck!? What makes you think I care enough to be bothered with your miserable suicide anyway? I don't. I don't wanna' know. Don't jump out a window and land on me, and don't jump in front of my train, goddamn it. I DON'T CARE! If your attempt was to somehow get more sympathy from me by making your death public, well, then, you've just failed as miserably at that as you apparently did in the big ol' dice-roll of Darwinism.

Before you know it you're like; "Fuck 'em! It's been 2 and 1/2 hours, let's go already! Just drive over the remains, it's not like he's going to be any less dead! The guy's burger, for chrissake, no one will notice if you don't scrape all of it into the bag. What? like he's getting up or something? Does his dismembered head have something to say? Yeah, I've heard of that happening in like the World Weekly News or something, but surely those spastic bio-electric currents must have ceased by now, right? Trust me, after he whispered 'rosebud', it was all over, now c'mon *whistle* let's get to steppin'! The rest of us have a fucking life to live here!"

Because frankly folks, I can only be so sensitive. A heartless bitch, you say? I'm not, really, ask any one of my friends, because they've known me forever and would surely not have hung around this long if I was. Hell, I'm even willing to bet that if you waved around my picture to a few strangers at my former place of employment, that more than a few of them would have a very nice story to tell you about me. A real Hallmark moment. But make no mistake, I'm the conductor on this big-ass train called "My Life"; it's a straight shot through with no wasted stops along the way. I've got a tight schedule, here. And if you get in my way, so help me, I'll not only roll right over your stupid ass, but I'll blow the steam whistle to let everyone know we just lost another idiot.

All aboard! Hang on tight and, toot toot, motherfucker. Thank you for riding Taiwan_On Rail.

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Is it that we're all so scared shitless of losing our jobs that we can't take a day or two off from work when we are nothing more than roiling human petrie dishes? What is this mentality that forces flu-sufferers to act like martyrs when they're oozing germ-leaden fluids and contaminating everything within a three mile radius?

Granted, I'd rather take a "healthy day" off from work, too. You know the type; first really great day of Spring after a long, cruel, depressing Winter. It's a balmy 70 or so degrees, sun is shining, soft breezes, and you wake up feeling full of possibilities, and well, why fuck it all up by punching the clock and spending it under florescent tube lighting? Sure, it's important to save a few of those sick days for when you're not actually sick, but the whole frigging point of SICK days is to keep your snot-dripping, clam-coughing, lunch-blowing, diarreah-blasting sorry ass home so you don't infect everybody else and send the whole machine grinding to a mucus-clogged halt.

I'm especially freaked-out by those people, you know, everyone has them in their workplace, that seem to catch every single illness that is fashionable that season, and you can always count on them to be at work no matter what their condition. The funny thing is, these people don't usually seem to be the types to be living the kind of reckless lifestyle that would cause them to be so perpetually run-down. It's not like they're out partying till all hours, dragging their still half-cocked asses into work, susceptible to a myriad viruses as a consequence of their wild social calendars. Nope, they're usually that single, mousy-looking chick with a bunch of cats or that chubby I.T. guy who looks like he still wets his bed and thinks girls are gross. They all claim to be in bed by 9:00, so I can only assume that they're volunteering at cootie colonies or something.

Well, if they're looking for some kind of sympathy by acting like such a good little trooper, then they better not look to me. I don't think you're a tough-guy, sickie, I just think you're inconsiderate and gross. I turn into a bit of an asshole when having to deal with the ill. I'm more likely to stand on the other side of the room and kick something across the floor, than politely hand it to them and risk brushing their germy hand. I'm more apt to say "cover your mouth, goddamn it!" instead of "god bless you" when someone sneezes. (well, not all the time, just when they don't cover.) And if they touch something that I need to use, like a computer or a telephone, I'll probably pass on any e-mails or personal calls I might have been considering, because it can surely wait. And I don't think management will look kindly on me calling a HazMat crew every five minutes or so to decontaminate. If someone is running to the bathroom with the shits, or worse; to puke, then I simply don't wanna' know about it. Do it discreetly you nasty bastard. I'd rather watch someone gouge their own eyeball out with a dirty "spork" than see them puke, or even hear it. Eeesh! Not to mention the fact that I'll probably spend the rest of the day trying to operate all the bathroom fixtures with my shoe, after they've had their way with them like that.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those compulsive germ-a-phobes that goes around rubbing alcohol all over everything before my pristine hands touch them, but I do take some kind of precautionary measures. I "hover" over public toilet seats, use the post-hand-washing paper towel to cover the bathroom door handle before junking it when I exit, and wash my hands before eating with them. And yeah, I cringe when I see people use their mouths as a money clip while they fish their pockets for change. I mean, do you know how much fecal matter is found on your average bill of currency? For that matter, do you know how much fecal matter is found on everything? I was reading in an article somewhere that there are enough staph, strep, e-coli, salmonella, rhinovirus, what-have-you germs and traces of feces on your everyday self-serve soft drink machine to be declared a biohazardous site. Who are these people that are picking their asses and then going and getting a Big-Gulp? Then I see these "caught on camera" shows where some disgruntled chef is jizzing in the clam chowder (which, by the way, should be considered an offense worthy of the death penalty.) and I'm glad I've never sent any food back at a restaurant, no matter how cold, under-cooked and just plain shitty it was. I mean, fuck all this anthrax bullshit, this is the real national health crisis. Do we have to reinstate hygene education in our school systems and start putting public service announcements between commercials about how not to be a disgusting freak?

I suppose I'm being a bit of a hypocrite about all this, because friends, family and boyfriends usually get some kind of sympathy from me when they're sick, mainly because they aren't "spreaders". You know; they hold up their hands in a defensive posture and say "Dude, don't hug me, I'm sick as fuck." I'm perfectly comfortable hugging them anyway. I don't really have any qualms about swabbing the (if applicable) boyfriend's mouth with my tongue, either, when they're sick. I firmly believe if I go in for the kiss, and he's considerate enough to block and say he doesn't want to give me his germs, I can safely go for it anyway on account of the fact that his consideration has formed an invisible germ force-field and I won't catch it. This belief, for some odd reason, has never failed me. I don't know whether it's power of the mind (which I'm a big fan of when it comes to staying healthy) or the fact that I serruptitiously pop a citrus-flavored vitamin C lozenge when he's not looking. Either way it seems to work for me.

I'm not saying I never get sick, either. I get the occasional cold or flu just like anyone, but I try to revel in it and not make it everyone else's problem. I'm so thrilled to have a valid, guilt-free reason to take a day off from work that you can be sure I won't be "code red" by the time I report for duty again. Sure, being sick sucks, but I think I secretly love it because I have a real excuse to spend the whole day lolling around in bed watching movies and feeling sorry for myself. Usually only the really mentally ill get to do that. I envy them that. Well, that and the free license to say whatever the hell pops into their wacky heads.

Which reminds me; can I just say what an honor (and a relief) it is to be venting spleen with such an exceptional bunch of writers? I look forward to coming here and reading what you all have to say with an excitement that borders on the truly pathetic. Next time you're having a wank, put a few extra strokes in there for me, because I love you guys that much. Take care, y'all, and for fuck's sake, stay healthy!

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Well, I've officially spent too many nights contemplating the meaning of the term "indie flick". Folks, we now live in a world where digital video is a viable film-making option, thereby becoming more accessable to every "Wally" who thinks he has a story to tell. This leaves me caught somewhere between fear and elation. Are we finally going to get to see films we truly want to see? Or will there just be more people shovelling more shit at us on a smaller budget.

Well, being a true film-lover and a believer in the power of independent film making, I've seen examples of both sides. I can give you a whole bunch of examples of what we don't need to see with a few web links, but, fuck all that, why give them the traffic? *evil grin* I can, however, give you a link to the first "DO" that pops into my head. (I've got another one in mind, but I'm waiting for some content to appear on his web site as proof, so, later on that.) Please, if you're so inclined, drop this guy an e-mail, and tell him how important it is that he get "Screenwriter" to the people on DVD. Please.

I know we're supposed to be pushing links to other blogs of note in our posts, and I'll get to that soon. But I thought where the abovementioned film was so well-written, it was applicable, in a "force it if it don't fit" way, to our "save the ballsy writers" campaign.

In the meantime, here's a little sanctimonious creedo I banged out in honor of my current fears for the future of indie cinema. Sing it to the tune of Baz Luhman's "Everybody's Free (to wear sunscreen)" if you don't mind. (Yeah, I know you mind, but maybe remembering this will make you a little less homicidal next time that song pops on the radio.)

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Well, Killjoy's earlier post about smut got me thinking that maybe it was time I once and for all "reprazent" as a chick who digs porn. I think there was a time before when I could say that I was in the minority on that one, but I no longer think that time exists. I remember reading somewhere that roughly 40% of pornography today is purchased by women. I went on a quest to find some reliable statistical sources for this, but when it comes to actual research, I have all the attention span of a gnat. Needless to say after about 40 or so minutes, I got waylayed by a rather clinical and matter-of-fact site dedicated to male masturbation (http://www.jackinworld.com/ix.html). Much more interesting. Anyway, fuck all that official-sounding shit. I'm here to talk about my feelings toward porn.

I love it.

Maybe you guys can relate when I say that, as a kid, Playboy magazine was the equivalent of the Holy Fucking Grail. Let's face it; male or female, when you're all of 7 years old, there is no more mystifying figure than a nude adult woman. After all, save for the obvious difference, us gals aren't built so much unlike you guys at that age, so a nude woman in her 20s is a whole different species of creature.

I remember I knew an especially "advanced" lad of 8 when I was 7 who taught me a few of the finer things in life; how to dive correctly without getting water up my nose, how to build a killer tire swing, the art of throwing a brutal left hook, and the joys of getting naked. We'd spend long summer days launching ourselves around his yard yelling like Tarzan, splashing around in his pool, slugging each other in the arms until we were black and blue, and, invariably, retiring to the cover of bushes behind his house to strip down and gawk at each other. And pissing; we had a thing for pissing in front of each other. I think it was our attempt at some kind of "genital demo" or something. I'm assuming this must be part of where penis envy comes in, too, because I distinctly remember whining; "I wish I could do it like that!" Squatting is so impractical, and, well, undignified. But I digress; it was him that brought Playboy into my life, and I can still see that centerfold in my head; a farm-girl motif of a blonde reclining in a pile of hay, sprig of straw in her mouth, cowboy hat tilted at a rakish angle, denim cutoffs unzipped and open to reveal a prim triangle of hair. And yes, I had then what I now recognize as an immediate sexual response to this image. I mean, sure I must have had some kind of response to his naked form too, or else I wouldn't have so looked forward to "naked time", but this was utterly different.

Talk about the death of innocence! From then on my life became a quest for porn, and I had an uncanny knack for ferretting it out. I went home that day and tore apart my parents' closets and dressers and any other likely hiding spot, but always managed to come up empty-handed. Boy did that piss me off! But the more I started asking around, the more I discovered everyone else's parents/brothers/child-molesting soccer coaches seemed to have a vast assortment at their disposal, and it was a far cry from Playboy, I assure you. But my most eye-opening experience came with the advent of technology. Yes, my friends, welcome to the magic of BETA.

The greatest score, in more ways than one, was when my friends and I stumbled across their dad's BETA porn collection. Well, it wasn't really a collection, per se, I think it was only about two tapes; one of which was some soft-core Playboy affair where a woman does little more than massage her tits with oil to the Bee Gee's tune "How Deep Is Your Love". Well, apparently our love wasn't so deep, because we were on to tape two in about 5 minutes, which was a rather dated collection of previews of "currently" available adult films. Tape two was, well, tape two was a real fuckin' education, I assure you.

I basically went from innocuous T & A straight to up-close penetration, orgies, anal sex, masturbation, vivd cum-shots and bondage, and that was only in the first ten minutes. This tape had to have been at least six hours long, because we watched that thing every day after school for about a month without ever getting to the end of it. Mind you, "watching" is a term I use loosely, seeing as we had to switch back over to "Thundercats" every 8 seconds or so whenever someone thought they heard a noise outside the living room door. Maybe that's why it seemed so damn long. It's hard to describe that initital reaction. When you're still too young to truly understand all of the basic mechanics of sex, there's something invariably disturbing about watching a huge, glistening, veiny, tumescent, purple cock dissappear down someone's throat. The three of us, myself and two other girls, all shrieked; "Eeeeew! I'm never gonna' do that! That's disgusting!"

But...we didn't exactly look away, either.

No, quite the contrary, we were rivited. I even remember the name of the film that one of the previews was for; "Babyface". Apparently this has become a bit of a cult classic, because it's still available even though it was from the 70's. Let me tell you a little something about 70's porno if you don't already know; it's fucking scary. You never saw a more bruised, track-marked, hagged-out, skanky, scrawny, hairy, fish-belly-white bunch of degenerates as a line-up of 70's porn stars. Eeeesh! Brutal. I mean, I joke now about it all being poorly-acted with shitty music, crappy shot-on-video quality and sorta' seedy looking folks in it, but really, it's a far cry from the loathsome garbage that passed for porno in the 70's. (although I think the music was better, in a Curtis Mayfield, Blowfly kinda' way.) I swear, you could almost smell the unwashed weeks-old sweat when you watched it. Yet, somehow it was still interesting enough to make me feel like I was crawling out of my skin.

I went home that day thoroughly distracted, to say the least. I sat through dinner with my folks, all spaced-out and sex-addled, pushing food around my plate and feeling vaguely guilty fearing that they had x-ray vision into my pornographied brain. I also remember that I was doing everything in my power to keep those images fresh in my mind. I somehow knew instinctively that picture-perfect recall would come in handy later. Little did I know how handy.

Time to let you all in on a little secret; diamonds are not a girl's best friend. A pulsating, hand-held shower head is. I knew this even before my big, gnarly 70's hardcore awakening. I knew how exciting all those settings could be; soft rain, light pulse, *shudder* hard pulse. (Whooo! I think I need a smoke!) However, I don't think any bathing experience will ever again match that night's. As I lathered up with my favorite soap; "Star Wars - Princess Leia" (which had an interesting watermelon-like smell that I can still hallucinate at will), I went into the rinse cycle with all those funky-ass porn snippets swirling through my brain. The shower head, on "light pulse", travelled down, down, down and the minute that stream hit the sweet spot...WHAMMO! Instant orgasm. My first ever. I was so shocked that I'm surprised I didn't slip and split my head open on the tile. Thanks to Dr. Ruth's "Good Sex" radio show every Sunday night, I knew exactly what was going on, I just thought, y'know, you had to be... older. Unfortunately, I also knew about multiple orgasms, so I immediately went in for seconds and was in for a rude awakening. You simply don't turn a pulsating shower-head on yourself immediately after an orgasm. My arm spazzed so hard I knocked the shampoo onto the shower floor with a loud crack, which was immediately followed by my mother frantically knocking on the bathroom door wanting to know if I had, indeed, slipped and split my head open. Nothing kills the after-glow faster than that, I promise you.

Instead I lapsed into a refractory period, going about the bedtime ritual, smiling inwardly to myself with a distinctly superior feeling. I somehow knew I had beaten all my friends to it, to turn a phrase. Being eleven years old and knowing how to get off felt like stolen knowledge. Judging from the conversations I've had with my other female friends over the years, I'm still pretty convinced it was. I went to bed that night and had my "seconds", and thirds too, in fact, and so began my illustrious career in masturbation. I'd like to thank porno for that, because, even though it seemed decidedly less interesting when weighed against my newfound talent, I may not have discovered it so easily without it. After all, it was porn that got me so cranked up in the first place. So...thank you, porn.

Now, here I am, older, wiser, and still fond of porn though more picky about production values. Maybe only once a month or so I'll get bored and start trawling the 'net for some interesting bit of filth, but it's hard to find a jewel up to my standards amidst all the muck. I have my successes though. I haven't really made any concerted effort to purchase actual porn, other than the odd copy of "Blue Blood" magazine picked up in the lobby of my favorite nightclub when there's a good fetish night or something. However, I did go on a 1/2 assed search of Michael Ninn's "Latex" on DVD at unlikely places like Tower Records and HMV, eliciting nervous giggles from the pierced employees. Guess you can only get T & A stuff there. I don't think I'll be buying "Latex" online any time soon, either, because the last thing I need is to be spammed to death and risk more hard-copy junk mail on top of that. Of course, the video stores in my immediate area don't carry it either. I even bothered to go to a sex shop in the city on my quest, but they only sold "novelties", so, naturally, I opted for a cool little vibrator instead, which is the most fun I've had since breaking up with my shower head in high school. I guess for now I'll have to be entertained by the big old porn flick I have going in my head, which is slick, funny, big-budget and just full of hot actors and actresses, you'll just have to trust me on that.

Y'know, I realize it will never be as popular as one that says "Porn Star", but I'm gonna' go buy me a Bedazzler and make me a glittery, itsy-bitsy pink tee shirt that says "Porn Director". After all, that's what this girl wants to be when she grows up. Until then, I'll catch all you cats on Movie Post or something, downloading with the rest of us hopeful pervs. ;-P

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So, I know I've mentioned before that I work in retail, but I think it's time I came clean. Technically I work as a photo-processor in a corporate retail entity that, for legal matters, will be known simply as "Drugco". Yep, I'm your friendly 1 Hour Photo girl and I process the uninspiring images of suburbia. Everything from tilted, out of focus shots of drunken teen parties, ugly little mutanoid toddlers holding mommy's empty beer cans (probably from the same aforementioned party), grainy, poorly composed black and whites of some scrub's skanky girlfriend in her underwear, unsteadily clutching a beer bottle while sprawled on a semen-stained bedspread in a cheap motel, and smiling, moneyed couples sipping Coronas on a pristine island of white sand and blue water. (An island I will probably not make enough ducats to see for myself as long as I'm working at Drugco.) There seems to be a lot of beer on hand at the time all of these pictures are taken, so one can only hope that there's enough left when it comes time to pick them up. God knows there isn't enough beer in the world for me to process them without becoming ever more disdainful of the human race.

What am I doing here, you ask? Well, I often ask myself this question. The truth is that I am a night person. I prefer to work at night, and while there are a plethora of reasonably well-paying jobs one can have at night in the city, one is somewhat limited when they find themselves transplanted in the suburbs where everything shuts down at around 9 PM. Drugco was not only open late, it was close to home, therefore, an easy commute. So, sheer laziness and a stubborn unwillingness to change my evil noctournal ways have led me here. I have no one to blame but myself. Granted, as far as shitty jobs go, this one isn't too bad; the wages are not too horrible (though a definite cut in the pay my competent ass is used to), the job is relatively undemanding, and the hours are flexible. Also, the benefits package isn't too bad, which is a nice change of pace after temping and managing at a few small businesses where there were no benefits offered at all. So, while I'm not one to bite the hand that feeds, I'm not above catching it in my formidable jaws and snarling a bit, either.

You see, no matter what job you apply for at Drugco, you have to learn to jockey the register. It's part of Drugco's entry-level training program. It takes all of about 5 minutes to master, but is necessary in ensuring that if a cashier pulls a no-show, someone else can always cover. Every Drugco employee gets a badge number and a numerical password which ensures that every transaction made can be traced to a specific employee. Sensible, no? Anyway, once I graduated from register duty, I try to limit my dealings with it to "photo land" only, because dealing with the public and their money has always left a bad taste in my mouth. There's also a lot of customers looking to pull a scam, and because they are so blatant about it and the corporate-imposed restrictions of my position don't allow me the luxury of calling them sleazy, lying fuckers, then I don't even want to know when it's going on. Unfortuantely, Drugco is enabling one of the most annoying nickle-and-dime scams of all time.

See, Drugco has this HORRIBLE policy that says that if a cashier forgets to give someone their reciept, then the customer get's $5.00 cash. Do you see what's wrong with that? There's absolutely no proof! It's word of honor, and we all know word of honor and a nickel will get you a frosty mug of "fuck-all" in today's moral climate. Anyone could easily purchase something, walk out the front door, throw their reciept in the trash, and then go back in and say they never got it and make an easy $5.00. Now, here's the worst part; that $5.00 comes out of the "offending employee's" paycheck! Oh, the humanity. Fortunately, I've never forgotten to give someone their reciept, and if they try to give me the brush-off, I simply hang onto their slip in case they come back and try to screw me so I can say; "no, it's right here; remember you told me to throw it out? (fuckhead)" So far, no one has come out of my register without a reciept, or claimed I haven't given them one. Lucky for them.

Anyway, the reason I was thinking about the injustice of this is because we have a woman, whom we'll call "Selma", who is about 56 years old, and well, if she had a brain, she'd have taken it out to play with it and then forgotten it on the bus years ago. She's so lacking in common sense that she is the punchline to every joke among the employees. More often than not, she saves us the trouble altogether and says something so priceless to justify one of her millions of nightly fuck-ups that it becomes its own puchline. We even call doing something stupid on the register; "pulling a Selma". A prime example of a classic Selma move is this; when a harried night manager at a loss to find some way to make Selma useful gave her a cart-load of items to be returned to their appropriate places on the shelves, she was spotted ambling around mindlessly in the incredibly non-seasonal and somber looking analgesics section (asprins, cold & cough medicine), trying to figure out exactly where to hang a huge bundled package of gaudy red and green Christmas garland. I could see her from my high, holy vantage point in the land of photo, and I shit you not, she looked in that aisle for at least 25 minutes, baffled as to why there were no other "Christmasy-type" items there.

There's even a little game we play amongst ourselves here at Drugco that we like to call "Freeze Page". You see, everyone at some point during the day, has to page a manager over to where they are through the store's public address system. Protocol is; "Mr./Ms. Manager to cosmetics please." (or wherever you happen to be). Well, even if you put Selma in the same place every night, there would still be that interminable pause between the request for assistance and her coordinates. It goes a little something like this:

"Mr. Manager to...[5 second pause]... cos...metics?" (that last part always a little unsure)

So, when her voice screeches across the speakers at an ear-bleeding pitch, everybody pauses, smiling a little, and waits for her to figure out where the hell she is. Sometimes, in the stillness, you can hear a manager mutter; "Motherfucker!" because it's usually the 20th time she's called for help in an hour's passing. My job would be a lot less fun without Selma, and I suspect everyone else's would too.

I have to say though, Selma is a sweetheart, in that way only the hopelessly stupid can be, and tries so desperately hard it's sad. I try to be helpful and patient with her, and she is improving incrementally as the months wear on, but for the most part, she's so dumb she just gums up the works. I can hardly get my own work done because she's constantly calling me over for help. Loudly. (Did I mention Selma has one of those voices like a 3/4 inch power drill jammed directly into your ear canal?) Of course, it's always something so simple that it astounds me, and I think half of her problem is that she completely lacks any powers of observation. Rather than just read the LED read-out on the register to find out why it's beeping at her, she just mashes her palm into the keypad hoping for a better result. Sometimes I'll be caught up doing something that I absolutely cannot break away from, and I hear her register protesting away for minutes at a stretch. "Beeep!... Beeeep!... Beeeep!... Beeeeep!..." When I finally get over there to rescue her, she's completely nonplussed and her unwitting customer looks about to suffer a grand mal seizure. Imagine my chagrin when I note that her LED readout says; "System busy - hit CLEAR", and hitting clear magically solves all the problems. Something as simple as forgetting to hit the TOTAL key when she's done ringing up an order can send her into a befuddled tail-spin. You might as well forget about using coupons, too.

But I digress, back to the infamous "fie dallah policy". Needless to say, a customer shows up last night trying to return something without a reciept. While my manager is off checking it in the system, the woman is standing there staring off into space in that blank, mindless way that only a true suburbanite is capable of. All of a sudden, out of the corner of her beady, bloodshot eye, she catches the little sign on every one of the registers that says "$5.00 if the cashier forgets to give you a reciept". And, I'm not kidding, her "flatliner" eyes light up, she jabs her fat finger at it and goes; "Oooh! Lookit that!" She even elbowed a customer I was waiting on and said "See that?!" to which he responded by flinching away from her and giving her a 'fuck off, you freak' look. Naturally, as soon as the manager re-appears, the story goes from "I don't have a reciept" to "The cashier FORGOT TO GIVE ME a reciept. Where's my fie dallah?" (and actually stuck her fat, ham-like, open hand out!! AARGH!) Now, this had happened the night before, and it was the register over in cosmetics, so I was in the clear. I was not only off that night, but they never put me over in cosmetics, even as coverage, because it's so far off in no-man's land away from the action that it's a register strictly reserved for the brain-dead and "floor help" on the night shift. But you know as well as I do who was manning the helm at "dumb cashier headquarters"... that's right; poor Selma.

Now, I happen to know FOR A FACT that for all of the dumb-ass things Selma does (and there are a zillion of them), she never ever forgets a reciept. She's living well below the poverty line, and management tries to schedule her as infrequently as possible because she's so destructive to productivity. She simply cannot afford to forget to do that one simple thing. It's the only thing I've seen her consistently remember. I'm willing to bet my life that Selma did not forget to give this broad her slip. A lot of people might see that as a losing bet, but if there was ever an occasion to have faith in ol' Selma, this is it. I wanted to say to that bloated, money-grubbing bitch; "I hope that five bucks is worth it, you fat cunt." and then give her a mouthful of broken teeth. Disgusted is a serious understatement.

Anyway, I don't know why that little injustice upset me so much, but it did. I mean, it didn't happen to me, but for some reason I really took it personally. For all my bandying about "eat the weak", there are some people you simply do not fuck over. Not only because it's like shooting fish in a barrel, but because Selma, though so dense it hurts my feelings, is a genuinely good person. I could picture her listening, only partially comprehending, and nodding as Big Business and Little Mind swipe five bucks out of her measly paycheck. Let's face it, none of us here at Drugco can afford to be bled like that. And although I'm no saint, after all, here I am pointing her out as the definitive illustration of idiocy, I would never want to hurt her. That nickel-chasing bag of cellulite, on the other hand, I did want to hurt. I wanted to hurt her so badly I had to clutch the counter to keep myself from leaping over it, attempting to get my small hands around her multiple neck-rolls, and choking the fat shit out of her. I wanted to follow her into the parking lot, beat her within an inch of her Dorito-binging, Oprah-watching life, rob her, then jump into her chicken-grease-smellin' Lincoln Town Car and back over her a few times until she squealed like a pig. This woman has probably accidentally eaten more money reaching into her purse for her "emergency bacon rations" than Selma will ever make in her whole life.

I think that $5.00 policy is evil and needs to be stopped. Quickly. Before I kill some mutha'fuckin'body. In the meantime, thank you for shopping at Drugco. Don't forget your FUCKING reciept!

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